In my garden everything comes to its center. It's the place where I whisper to the earth and ask for its blessing. Where I grumble at the crabgrass, digging and pulling, and move the soil until it is puffy and black, until I think I hear the earthworms cry for mercy, "Go away!" Where I pluck off the old calendula blossoms to make room for the brilliant orange of new ones, and pluck the dead thoughts from my mind, hoping for blooms on the page.